


Born to Die

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Humor, M/M, Possession, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 23:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: Dean’s world is ending and they just engaged in high school-level fumbling, and he wasn’t even allowed to enjoy it.





	Born to Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foggysundays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggysundays/gifts).



_Don't make me sad, don't make me cry. Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough I don't know why._ ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bag1gUxuU0g))

 

For all the time Dean’s imagined fucking Sam, he's never actually expected it to happen. Obviously.

But if it ever were going to happen, he thinks, elbows sinking into the mattress under Sam’s weight, Sam’s hands familiar on his skin, it makes sense that it would happen now — Dean riding shotgun to his own body while an angel takes the reins, and Sam consuming all of his vision, completely and justifiably pissed at him.

It should be horrific, Sam breathing harshly against Dean’s mouth. It should be terrible, the things they’re doing. But he finds the curve of Sam’s shoulder almost romantic now when Michael sinks his teeth into it. The mingling of their breath is intimate in the low light of Dean’s bunker room where he’d found Sam sleeping. Michael had been wandering the halls and Dean along with him, feeling sorry for himself, pathetic and mean. And now this.

And after it happens, Sam shoves Dean off of him and Dean lets him. Michael lets him, that is. Dean’s body sits up without his say-so, the sheets crumpled on the floor where he drops his feet. Sam has thrown an arm across his face, bicep tan with pale lines where wounds have healed but left scars.

"Someone’s glad to have me back."

Sam winces when Dean’s voice says it, but he doesn’t know the half of it. Dean wants to reach out, to say _Sam it’s okay. It’s not me._ or maybe just head for the hills. But he’s not the one driving and all he can do is yell into the void as the world zooms out again until it’s all blackness, like Dean’s looking out the wrong end of a telescope searching for land but finding just sea.

 

 

 

  
Next time he comes to he’s at a bar alone, he and Michael. It’s like breaking the surface gasping, only his body is sitting calmly on a stool meeting his own gaze in the mirror.

 _Fuck you,_ is the first thing he thinks.

Michael tsks. _Now Dean, I’ve been so gracious to let you out._

_I’m not a fucking animal you can keep penned in. We made a deal. Get the hell out of me._

But he knows it's futile. Michael has big plans for Dean’s body, and when had deals ever gone right for him?

_Exactly._

Michael can hear his thoughts easily. In the reflection he grins and rolls his shoulders like a fighter. They both do. At a glance Dean could believe it was himself. Michael has put on Dean’s jacket over a faded Zeppelin tee. But the collar is nearly ironed down, the fabric pristine and unwrinkled along the arms and shoulders. The shirt looks trendy rather than something that was found balled up in the corner of his closet.

But the eyes are the worst. There’s something very off about his eyes, the windows to the soul or lack thereof. He looks completely unlike himself, if you’re looking for it.

_Well, I think I’ve been doing rather well, thanks for noticing._

Dean reminds himself to stop thinking so loud. _Just get me a goddamn drink._

A whiskey would be incredible right about now. Michael gestures to the bartender, and the bottle being pulled from the top shelf is a welcome sight, but Dean is dismayed to find that Michael is a martini man. He wills his body to push the glass away, knock it over, move a finger, anything. But from the reflection in the mirror there’s no sign of his struggle and Michael raises the glass to his lips.

Michael smiles at himself, a quirk of the mouth. _Sam’s always said you’re a pain in the ass._

_Is he hurt? What have you done to him?_

_Will knowing anything make you feel better? I’m trying to spare you, Dean._

_Please._

This is what he’s been reduced to. Begging the angel who is wearing him like a skin for the smallest news of his brother. When you’re possessed it’s like being covered with plastic wrap and held taut and suffocating. He has no idea what day it is, what state they’re in, what has happened to Sam since the last time Michael let him watch. For all he knows Sam’s now been dead for years and Michael’s only just let Dean surface.

 _It’s October,_ Michael tells him. So it’s been three months since Dean made his ill-advised choice to say yes to Michael. A lot could have happened since then. _Your brother is currently no doubt moping in that man cave you two call home, alive and well._ Dean swears he hears a ‘for now’ lingering unsaid.

 _Don’t touch him. You can do anything you want with me, just leave him alone. You don’t need him._.

 _Too late._ He has vague flashes of what Michael’s been up to, and tries not to land on any one image. Blood, lots of blood. Monsters. Michael doesn’t give him any hint of what might have happened to Sam in Dean’s absence, but Dean can guess. When he’s had time to dwell on this long enough, Michael says finally, _He has some real hang ups_.

Dean waits for him to go on, but when it becomes clear that he’s not going to, he has to prompt, _About?_

 _Everything._ And if it's possible for an angel to sound unimpressed, condescending, and bored, all with one word, Michael is it. He clarifies, _Hang ups about everything._

_You touch him again and I’ll kill you. You hear me?_

Michael nods like he understands. "I, for one, would just as soon slit your throat."

The men closest to him at the bar go silent. He’s said it out loud.

Michael smiles at himself in the mirror. "But I’ll let you live for now."

The man closest to Michael swirls on his stool so that he's facing his way, and tries, "Now see here, sir—"

"I’d rather you didn’t interrupt," Michael says. "I’m having a drink with a friend."

Dean can see their discomfort from the corner of his  
vision. Michael’s vision. He tries to call out for help, take control of his body for one vital second, but he can't, and the man purses his lips in disapproval and leaves shortly thereafter.

As Michael sips his martini, Dean tries to come up with something, anything, but comes up blank. He probably isn’t going to get that whiskey.

 

 

 

Sam should have killed him the second he saw that light in Dean’s eyes. Dean had felt the change from the inside, Michael filling every corner of him. But Sam had seen it. He’d seen it happening and known what it meant. He hadn’t killed him, he’d let Dean go, and now they’re in a whole other world of trouble.

Dean experiences the daylight hours distantly, while a facsimile of a man plays the part he used to know.

They leave to do god knows what as Dean comes to, hands smelling like antiseptic. He sometimes sees their reflection in the mirrored elevators of upscale hotels. Today they’re walking the halls of the bunker, listening in.

"Can’t do it, you’ll have to take this one," Sam says. The sound of his voice echoes down the hall, and Michael follows it. "Yeah, Dean and I are still uh, dealing with Michael." Sam laughs a mirthless sound.

Michael eavesdrops on the call with dispassionate glee. All Sam would have to do to find Michael is look right in front of him. The irony is terrible. Dean can feel it down to his non-corporeal gut.

"We’re always one step ahead, aren’t we?" Michael says to Dean in Dean’s own voice.

"Oh, uh, everything is normal!" Sam says to whoever it is on the other end. His voice goes up into a squeak at the lie. "Everything’s totally fine here, uh, between me and Dean. Let me know if you need me to call in some help for you. Ok bye." He ends the phone call abruptly, and Dean hopes that whoever it was can hear the panic and comes back to the bunker early. Maybe it was Cas. He could do with Cas showing up right about now, he might be able to recognize his own brother even if Sam can’t.

Dean’s thoughts are consumed again by a memory of smooth shoulders, heavy breathing, by just how much Sam doesn’t recognize him, and Michael chuckles darkly like an actual bad guy in a superhero movie.

Sam calls, "Dean?"

The laugh cuts off abruptly. Michael arranges Dean’s features into something casual, and then steps out from around the corner into the library. "Hiya, Sammy."

Sam is at the table with about fifty books piled precariously in front of him. There are a couple mailing packages under the table, unopened, Dean notices, and multiple mugs that might have held coffee are scattered across the table, long-since gone cold. At 6am it’s a heartbreaking sight.

"Uh, hi," Sam says. Abruptly Dean realizes that he is not doing well. His hair has a lank quality to it, his beard somewhat grown out. Sam’s gaze skitters away like he can see the worry behind Dean’s eyes.

Michael steps further into the room. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Just mom asking if we want to take a hunt."

Michael shrugs. "Sure, let’s go."

"Nah. Not while you’re…" He seems to catch himself. "While you’re recovering. You know, from being possessed."

This is the first time Dean thinks Sam might know. He could always tell when Sam’s lying. He shoves that thought down real quick though and casts around for any other thought, quickly, his focus landing where Sam’s foot is shoving away the packages. He wonders loudly what’s in them.

Michael picks up this thought. "What’s in the boxes?"

"Oh uh, nothing." Sam looks askance and then shoves the pile under the table further.

But Michael is advancing on Sam, casually coming to take a look at what Sam’s hiding.

"I wanted to come find you actually," Sam says loudly and Michael draws his gaze up to Sam’s face. Sam turns his computer to show him the screen. "I’ve come up with the spell to get rid of Michael. When we find him, that is."

Michael rolls his eyes hard, and Dean prays Sam will look up from his laptop to notice.

Sam does not look up, he points to the screen instead and explains, "So Michael needs to be caught while he’s possessing a vessel, and then this needs to be recited." He gestures to a blurry photo of a tablet covered in familiar symbols. "There’s some other stuff we need to do the spell but I’ll take care of that." He finally looks at Michael. "Got that? The only thing _you_ have to do is recite this out loud."

Through Michael’s uninterested eyes, Dean tries his hardest to make out what’s on the screen. Of course it’s in enochian.

 _Holding out for a hope, are we?_ Michael’s interest has been piqued by Dean’s attention, so Dean lets his mind slide away from the thought like butter even as the whisper of an idea floats through him. He doesn’t let it snag, instead focusing on anything else, the first thing his mind lands on: Sam’s washboard abs. It’s a bold image and Michael turns his suspicion away from what Dean might have started to think about.

"The spell is only four lines in enochian," says Sam. "But it took me weeks and a bunch of favors to get my hands on it. Come on, take a closer look." He all but shoves it in Michael’s face.

Michael does take a look, reading the lines in his head derisively. Derisively, but clearly. Dean repeats them quietly, trying not to focus on any plan of any sort. Sam’s washboard abs, he thinks. Sam’s washboard abs. He can picture them clearly.

 _Pretty, isn’t he._ Michael agrees.

 _Leave him alone,_ Dean thinks back. He may have gone overboard because Michael resumes interest in Sam, looking away from the laptop. _I’m fucking serious, don’t you dare touch him._

"No such luck," Michael whispers into Dean’s mind, and chuckles out loud again.

"What?" says Sam.

"Nothing," says Michael. "So about what happened. You know, last week."

Sam doesn’t look at him. "Yeah, I remember."

Michael leers. "I would never have guessed you were such a stallion between the sheets."

"Uh, right," Sam says. His neck has flushed red and splotchy.

 _It’s not me Sam, it’s not me!_ Dean shouts wordlessly into the void.

Michael hears this and laughs that laugh again. Dean swears Sam must notice. It’s not like him, this should be obvious.

"Up for a second round or do you want to show me how to kill an all-powerful archangel?"

He expects Sam to punch him for that.

Instead Sam turns and gives him a heated look and Dean is knocked back on his ass, figuratively. From far away he feels Sam grabbing his body by the front of the shirt and pulling him down.

Dean tries to see it distantly, like it’s a porno he can x out of any time he wants. He and Sam could be two strangers who met in a crowded bar. Faceless, names changed at the door.

"Dean," Sam says, and kisses him so sweetly, ruining this fantasy, and if Dean had a heart right now he thinks it might break.

He stops paying attention then, easier to do when you’re playing second fiddle. He doesn’t want to see anyway. While Michael is distracted, Dean quietly repeats the lines of enochian so he doesn’t forget them. He doesn’t have a plan, he thinks loudly, while searing every word into his being.

And when he looks back, he finds his body spread out over the library table. Sam just looks like Sam. And to Sam, Dean looks just like himself. They are themselves, doing this. Dean lets himself believe it for a second, but the fragile picture shatters when he realizes a second later Michael is laughing at these overly romantic thoughts. Dean’s body is, that is. Dean sees red and so does Sam.

"Dean?"

Michael’s chest jumps with quiet giggling, and he lounges back with his arm behind his head.

"You know what? Fuck you." Sam does up his fly quickly and makes for the door.

"So we’re not talking about this?" Michael calls after him.

"Leave him alone," Dean says. "Fucking leave him alone."

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s said this out loud, physically out of his own mouth.

"What the fuck?" he says then, voice hoarse. He realizes that he’s wasting his only breath and opens his mouth to shout for Sam but it’s too late, and Dean is a fucking idiot, because Michael realizes what’s happened then and slams the door shut on Dean’s consciousness, stubbing it out like a cigarette.

It’s the last thing Dean sees for a long time, this special fragment of the world.

 

 

 

He’s been here before. Smoke in his hair, pockets full of grave dirt. Sleepless nights consumed by waking dreams of a life he used to have.

He’s six-feet under, in a cemetery. He looks around when Michael does, trying to figure out the when and why but he can’t find significance. A wooden casket creaks beneath his boots. It’s been neatly unburied, like they’ve been here digging all night, and he might hear the first calls of birds although it’s the only trace of dawn. They’re clearly about to waste some spirit, but whose Dean can't say.

Sam’s hulking form is a dark silhouette above him. From the edge of the hole he says, "Ok, I think we’re done," and drops his shovel to the ground.

His face is briefly lit up as he flips a matchbook inside out and lights the bunch. The book flames and then simmers before he drops it to the grass where a ring of flame springs up to wreath the grave. Holy fire, for some reason, Dean can smell it.

Michael drops his shovel too, alarm bells going off. It’s the most ruffled Dean has ever felt him. "What are you doing?"

Sam seems untroubled though and he sighs. "Dean, we talked about this. Haven’t you been listening?"

"Oh, uh…kinda," Michael says, which is totally something Dean would say when he hasn’t been listening to Sam’s long proselytizing about types of salt, types of rope, why Dean should floss. Dean has taken his life for granted in many ways, he realizes. Sure salt is salt and his oral health is his own concern, but goddamn if he isn’t going to treasure every one of Sam’s words from now on.

Sam’s teeth shine white from up above, a soothing smile. "I told you all about my new warding system to dispel angry spirits. Although I’d be happy to tell you again of course." He clears his throat. "Let’s begin in Babylonian times."

"Oh, totally," says Michael, but thinks _blah blah blah_ and tunes Sam out. _A nerd, just like my brother. It’s no wonder he’s Lucifer’s perfect vessel._

Sam drops down into the grave after a minute of doing something with herbs and incense, finishing his explanation. "And hopefully that way we won’t be thrown across graveyards and break anymore tombstones. And avoid concussions, which is always good."

"Totally," says Michael. "So interesting."

The coffin creaks ominously under their combined weight. Dean notices that Sam is very close now, not much room down here for the both of them. A guileless smile plays on his mouth. And what now?

Dean’s shoved forward suddenly, his face smashed against the dirt at the head of the grave. Sam’s hands move sly and hot under his t-shirt.

"Oh it’s that kind of thing," Michael chuckles. "Didn’t think this turned you on...dead flesh, old bones."

This could be forever. Sam’s hands on him. Dean drowning in himself, miles away while Michael destroys it all.

"Dean, relax," Sam says and presses him harder into the soil. "Just...let your guard down."

"What do you mean?"

Sam doesn’t answer. He seems to be sketching mindless patterns into the dirt with their joined hands and says, "You, uh, wanna?"

"Hell yeah," says Michael as he drops Dean’s jeans around his ankles with little ceremony. Dean can tell he gets off on the thrill of having conquered Lucifer’s chosen vessel. Michael can taste the last remnants of him in Sam and wants to devour them all, which is pretty pathetic not to mention messed up.

 _That’s rich, coming from you,_ thinks Michael.

Dean ignores him, listening to the cicadas and Sam’s breath in his ear. The smoke from above is acrid and heady, like myrrh or something else biblical.

Sam yanks Dean’s shirt up over his head and drops it on the coffin. Michael tenses when the tip of a knife suddenly meets the base of his spine but then he relaxes, chuckling when Sam whispers, "Coward."

Michael quirks an eyebrow, sarcastic even with his cheek pressed into dirt. "Baby I’m not above a little knife play."

"Fuck yeah."

Dean is only mildly surprised this is something Sam is into, it sort of fits. But Sam digs in and seems to be seriously etching something into his back, the pain distant to Dean and probably a non-issue to Michael. The blood oozes slowly and Sam tosses the knife away, taking Michael by both wrists and holding him hard, vice grip on his wrists so he can’t escape. Dean can feel Sam’s erection hard against his lower back. Michael leans back into it.

Sam pops the lid off what Dean thinks might be lotion or salve of some sort a  
nd smears it all over Dean. Weird but whatever. It smells strongly of something herbal.

"Say it, Dean," Sam says then. He puts his mouth to Dean’s ear. "Please tell me you remember."

Michael tests Sam’s grip on his wrists. "Say what?"

"Nothing. I," Sam pants. "I…"

"What, Sam?" Michael’s voice makes Sam’s name sound dirty, not in a good way. Dean’s so offended by this he almost misses Sam’s next gasping words.

"I just want you to know...I love you."

Dean is so surprised that Michael notices and stops moving. "What?"

That thought balloons in Dean’s mind until it’s the only thing he can think. "What?"

And it takes him a second to realize he’s said it outloud. A thin gasp of a word, but he formed it with his own lips.

Sam holds Dean’s wrists harder and yells, "Dean! Now!"

Dean takes control. He speaks the lines of enochian and light spills out of his brain. That’s what it feels like at least, a cold flame that sears through his consciousness. He thinks he hears Michael’s scream, but it’s gone just as it begins and Dean sees darkness.

And afterward, two minutes later, maybe ten, Dean opens his eyes. He finds he’s curled on top of the coffin, clutching his skull. The aftershocks of pain lessen in waves, like Michael has been split from him with a knife, cauterized leaving only a smoking wound.

When he can see again, think again, the world is so quiet and he can taste something unsettling in his mouth. He’s bitten his tongue but not badly. Something else is there, not sulfur but something wrong, but it goes away quickly after a flask of holy water shoves itself against his lips and Dean drinks deep.

Sam is close, in focus. Finally, after months of fractured scenes. He’s currently curled in a ball himself at the other end of the grave, as far from the angel light as he could manage.

"Sam?" Dean’s throat hurts and it’s beautiful.

Sam’s eyes are wide and he crawls to him and Dean grabs him by a fistful of his shirt and drags him in. Sam falls against his bare chest, which is gloriously cold, Dean notices. He can finally feel the world against his skin.

He can't remember the last time Sam cried. It must have been after one ill-fated trip to California, the one that set this chapter of their life in motion, but after that Sam's nerves had been steeled, he’d always been ready to just take it.

Sam lies there now, shoulders shaking until Dean allows himself to touch his hair and says, "Is that your knife or are you happy to see me?"

For a brief moment Sam goes slack against him laughing. It’s not the first time they’ve been half buried and singed and clasping each other in relief but Dean hopes it will be the last.

Sam gets up very gingerly then and helps Dean up. He picks up the knife and slides it into his bag. "It worked," he says in wonder. "My plan worked!"

"Yeah, you did good," says Dean. "Real good." Understatement of the year.

He wonders if Sam notices Dean’s pants are still at their feet but doesn’t mention it, quickly tugging them up when Sam finally turns away under the guise of gathering his shovel and oil, wiping at his eyes.

"Wait a sec," Dean accuses, thought just occurring to him. "You knew!"

Sam stares at him. "What?"

"You knew! That I was still possessed! That—" he can’t bring himself to say the name, suddenly afraid he’ll conjure him up at a word. "He’s gone, right? It feels like he's gone."

"He should be." Sam tries to look more sure for both of their sakes. "He’s definitely gone. I mean, I severed him from your body and made it unusable to him with runes." He makes to reach out, but stops halfway. "Um, sorry about your back."

"Seriously Sam? You think I care about that?" Dean shakes his head, and reaches down for his shirt, which is gloriously painful to pull on. "Can’t believe you knew this whole time."

Sam sounds outraged. "Of course I knew!"

"Could give a guy a hint."

Sam looks at him like he’s an idiot. "What do you think I was doing? I literally told you I was working on how to kill Michael," he counts off on his fingers. "Showed you the spell, told you I was taking care of the non-spell part, and lured him into an obvious trap." Sam waves at the close grave walls before making a move to climb up. Dean puts out a knee and Sam steps on it harder than necessary probably and pulls himself lithely over the edge, leaving Dean to scramble up awkwardly after him using roots and dirt and Sam’s outstretched arm as an anchor.

They douse the flames and gather their shovels. The smell of gasoline and holy oil is very strong in the air now that Dean isn’t miles away from his physical senses, and it’s like a beautiful perfume. There is also a significantly sour smell coming off Sam, Dean notices, like maybe he hasn’t bathed in a long time.

"Did you really spend all that time thinking I couldn’t tell it wasn’t you?" Sam asks as they leave the site of their grave desecration — the corpse hadn’t needed to be burned after all but Dean can't find it in himself to feel bad about that right now.

Dean shrugs. "I was only there for part of it. But he really convinced me he had you fooled."

It does sound dumb now that Sam says it. How much it had hurt. Pathetic, Michael would have whispered into Dean’s mind.

But Michael is gone. Forever. Dean remembers this again, and lets out a whoop of joy and sprints back to his car.

There are sirens in the far distance, someone likely having alerted the cops to bright lights and probable satanists in the graveyard. Sam tosses him the keys and Dean gets in. He takes a moment to run his hands lovingly over the steering wheel.

"Get a room," Sam says, but he’s smiling and he lets Dean play a tape on blast as they escape through an unknowing suburbia.

 

 

 

 

And then they never have sex again.

Of course they don’t. Everything just goes back to normal. It’s really a nonissue.

"Let’s go celebrate," Sam suggests. "Let’s go see a movie or something, I don’t know." He has a happy energy to him. He has saved the day against immeasurable odds, they both still can’t believe it.

"Anything you want," Dean says, and means it. Dean is alive, Sam is safe, and breathing is a goddamn gift.

Sam buys them a large popcorn, shelling out an exorbitant ten dollars and shamelessly getting the guy at the counter to layer butter and salt throughout until it’s saturated. He follows Dean into the crowded action movie and doesn’t cast a wistful look toward the penguin documentary playing the next theater over. He even cedes the armrest to Dean after letting himself be dragged to sit way up in the make out seats. Er, the back, that is.

It’s nice, it’s awesome even. Dean can shove as much popcorn in his mouth as he wants and crack jokes with his brother in a low voice while explosions go off on the big screen. No one to stop him. He is himself entirely, all that Michael business squared away. They both are almost giddy with relief.

When Sam’s knee knocks against his, Dean catches the smile out of the corner of his eye and he freezes with a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth.

Oh shit. Sam loves him, he remembers abruptly. L Sam had said it, while he lured fake-Dean into a clever trap involving blood play and what could have been a mind-blowing hand job or otherwise in an open grave if things had kept going. Maybe he’d meant it in a totally not weird brotherly way but given the context, Dean doubts it.

It’s not a big deal. Dean chews the handful of popcorn mechanically and goes for another, thinking about this. Sam’s hand brushes his amidst the popcorn and they both stutter out a laugh and then fall abruptly silent, leaning away from one other.

And this continues into the next week, the thought easy enough to brush aside but hard to keep at bay for long. He wonders how long Sam has had that...feeling...and finds himself tensing up every time Sam gets within a room’s distance. It’s more difficult than he’d expected to ignore the memory of Sam’s mouth against his, and twice now Sam has caught him looking.

Like when Sam reaches past him in the kitchen to get a plate, and Dean can feel the heat against his back as Sam leans in what seems unnecessarily close. The hairs on Dean’s neck stand on end. His senses are on high alert, ready for Sam’s heavy hand to fall on his shoulder, to be spun around and shoved against the kitchen wall or carried off bigfoot-style and thrown down into an all-consuming experience of memory foam. That first time it had happened, one iPod earbud had been still in Michael’s ear, one of Sam’s emo tunes setting a strange tone so that the sex had felt like some fantasy dream.

But of course that is all behind them and the awkwardness is the only sign Sam even remembers what he and Michael had done. Now, Sam only takes the plate he was going for off the shelf and deposits his toast on it, sitting down to eat without so much as a glance Dean’s way like he’s not harboring an embarrassing love that dare not speak its name.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t love Sam. He’s had a flame for him that he carries like it’s the fucking Olympic torch. But nothing was ever supposed to happen. Not really.

Dean places his mug of coffee on the table and sits across from Sam who continues eating, pulling out a newspaper. Dean lets himself look, noticing Sam looks healthier now. He’s showered and shaved and looks like he’s been able to relax and isn't being tormented by a celestial being.

"You look good," Dean says, breaking the silence.

Sam finally meets his eyes, giving him a weirded out look. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, it looks like you’ve been sleeping."

"Yeah, it was pretty hard to get any sleep with all that Michael stuff happening."

Dean blinks ten times or more, mind reeling at the implications of that. He can’t be mad at Sam, but he doesn’t have to like what happened. He eventually comes out with, "Well, you sure have a thing for monsters."

This was the wrong thing to say.

Sam drops his half-eaten toast onto the plate. "That's not what I meant. I couldn't sleep because I was worried about you, asshole." He stomps out of the kitchen, fuming.

"You not going to eat this?" Dean calls after him and vindictively eats the toast.

 

 

  
He wakes from nightmares every night, which is honestly to be expected. He’d suspect he was still possessed or something if he didn’t. But this means he can't sleep, spends his nights fixating on what Sam had said and what he'd done with fake Dean, can't stop thinking about it.

"Well ain’t that a fucking shame," Dean says to his ceiling the fifth restless night running. Because not only did he let Michael bad touch his brother, but apparently he broke Sam’s heart in the process. The pit of nausea in his gut grows, and he thinks wryly that he might be the worst brother in all of the history of time.

By day they spend hours across from each other in the library, Dean wondering whether Sam will either fuck him or forgive him, trying to conceive of a universe where he should. But neither happens, the words blur on the page in whichever book he should be working his way through.

If this were a life where he hadn’t just survived being possessed and committing heinous crimes against humanity, he'd get up and take a drive. He'd book a motel room somewhere and order takeout and flop down onto the second bed and make fun of Sam to lull the awkward out of him. A western would be playing low on TV, a real shoot 'em up that would distract him long enough from the memory of his brother's dick in his hand. This fantasy of normalcy ends there, the thought sending shivers up his arms.

He shoots Sam a look under the guise of scratching his nose, and tries to gauge whether Sam's really reading or instead thinking about the same things as Dean.

Sam, however, doesn't give any indication that he can feel Dean's eyes watching him, let alone boring into his skull. He flips another page, scanning it with a sort of peevish, constipated look on his face. Could he be thinking about it — the sex, the admission of feelings? It’s hard to say and there is no way to ask. The words for it are unthinkable.

Dean taps his fingertips slowly on the table as he turns a page of his book. One two three. One two three.

"What’s eating you?"

Dean startles so hard he rips a page from the three-hundred year old manual on exorcism. Sam stares at him. Sam, who loves him. He _loves_ him.

"Aha," Dean says under his breath, tapping his finger to the page at a random point. "Interesting."

Sam sits back and shoves his own book away and gives Dean a look. Dean smiles at him, feeling it land crooked. This seems to put Sam on his guard.

"So..." The syllable trails off until it's not even a word anymore, just a dumb sound Dean made in the quiet.

Sam waits.

"So," says Dean again, gamely going on. "I mean, now that we're taking a study break. Do you want to…talk? About things?"

Sam looks down at his book for a long time. "Dean. We don't need to talk about it."

"Yeah. But...he hurt you."

"I needed to distract him while I figured out how to exorcise him. That’s all it was, just forget it, ok?"

"Oh, right." They read for a couple more minutes before Dean continues, “I just wanted to apologize is all.”

"I’m sorry too, that I did that to you without your permission."

"Dude, don’t even."

"It’s just, I knew that if I could get to you, give you a moment where he was distracted enough for you to take over, you could say the words to the spell." Sam frowns.

Dean nods. "No, it makes total sense."

"I was just trying to get you back," says Sam. He sounds panicked. "Can we go back to being normal? Please? I promise everything is going to be okay now. Just forget everything I did, everything I said, it was all to get you back. It didn’t mean anything, ok?"

Dean grins, but even he can feel how lopsided and wrong it is. So Sam didn’t mean it. Of course he didn’t.

Well good. That settles that.

Sam has started to look more uncertain the longer Dean has taken to respond.

"Of course," Dean says belatedly. He turns away, tugging his jacket straight. "Of course it’s okay Sam. You were awesome, I can never thank you enough. So don't worry about it."

"So we’re good?"

"Yeah." Now Dean can put that in a box and never open it.

Sam looks so relieved and Dean feels queasy. When Sam reaches over the table to—what? Hold his hand or something?—Dean stands with a clatter of his chair.

"I’ll just—" Dean jerks his thumb. "Go grab a sandwich."

The bunker halls are like a labyrinth and Dean thinks he might never get out.

 

 

 

They’re normal now. He and Sam, on the level. Dean hasn’t left the bunker since they got back, has been living his days playing cellphone games while Sam does research for other hunters, and binging horror films.

He still can’t sleep a full night, and when he rests he wakes suddenly and has to check that he has control of all his limbs. He gets pizza ordered to the metal hatch of the bunker and then tips the guy extra not to reveal the location. It’s risky, but so is the rest of their lives.

Generally things are okay. He tries not to dwell on anything and Sam seems to be giving him space.

One morning, Dean looks up when he's brushing his teeth, and reflected back at him is Sam. To himself, Dean looks tall and hulking and monstrous in the warped mirror as Sam comes into the bathroom, their eyes locking briefly and Dean pauses brushing.

But Sam’s eyes slide away as he moves in next to him. He squirts toothpaste on his toothbrush, and Dean is overcome with the dying need to either shove him around and jerk him off against the mirror or hit him in the face for all he's worth. Just weeks ago a coffin was splitting beneath their heavy weight and now they’re here.

Instead of acting on either impulse, Dean resumes brushing while Sam brushes thoroughly next to him, his biceps bulging so pornographically that Dean chokes.

"Um," Sam says, turning to help.

Dean coughs and shakes his head, then ducks to wash out his mouth right under the tap when he can breathe again. Sam frowns with a cup in his hand, swishing his mouth out with water, and Dean halfheartedly glares back in the reflection. He doesn’t need any damn pity.

His glances once more at Sam’s arms, eyes watering. This kind of shit can fuck you up, Dean reminds himself as he hurries back to his room.

For days, the carefully copied notes in the library pile in paper towers as Dean ignores the nightmares and the awkwardness for all he’s worth, returning instead to the world of abject sexual fantasy. He imagines he'd take a certain satisfaction watching Sam come apart there on the library table. Watching the stacks tip over, he thinks as he flips a page of his book dolefully, would be great. Papers falling to the floor in flurries and avalanches.

Dean stretches, wincing at the cuts still healing on his back, and Sam’s mouth grows tighter as he reads.

He used to think about this a lot, how it would happen, knowing it never would. But now it has. He wonders if he'll ever stop thinking about it.

So, it doesn't happen in the library. It doesn’t happen anywhere and it’s not going to. Dean begins to believe it was a waking hallucination, a fever dream. This life with Sam should be enough, but here Dean is, ruining everything.

 

 

 

  
He’s near the bottom of a bottle when he makes the call. Not an actual call, although about halfway through the whiskey he’d toyed with the idea of texting Sam something unforgivable.

No, he’s made a decision. He is going to stop being this pathetic and moping about whatever it is he’s moping about, and he’s going to clean up his act. He is going to do what he was put on this earth to do. He’s going to hunt, dammit. Tomorrow morning, butt crack of dawn. Maybe the grim taste of victory as he unloads bullets into something slimy will shock him out of the funk he’s in.

He wakes at four-thirty from old dreams about the wrath of heaven and heads out, leaving a note for Sam on the fridge. There have been a rash of deaths in or around the St Louis sewer system, a case that sounds grueling and kind of gross. Dean needs this.

He drives until he’s hit morning traffic on the outskirts of the city, and by the time the sun is a couple inches from the horizon he’s feeling fresh. Coffee in a diner, vague glances at his silent phone until he turns it screen down and lays it by the salt. The waitress gives him a look like, _you and me both_ , and gives him extra butter with his toast and calls him sugar. Dean tips her four tired bills, soft under his empty mug, and he feels kind of content.

Dean feels invisible, like a guy on his way to work who has no special bulls eye on his back as all around him people dig forks into waffles and talk sleepily.

He gets back in the car and he drives some more, until he's almost in Illinois and has a sandwich for lunch. Keeping things simple.

The sewer next. It’s stupid to hunt alone, so sue him. Sam still hasn’t texted even to chew him out.

He consults a map and then parks on the street near some road work. His throat is quickly clogged with a sour smell as he lifts a manhole with a crowbar and finds the ladder leading down down down.

The drip of water is familiar and every footstep toward where he suspects the monster’s den to be is more sure than the last, his aim clear and uncomplicated by feelings or regrets. He can’t think about anything now, other than the eye-witness accounts and whether he is in fact going to encounter an actual, real life dragon.

He allows himself to feel a real sort of glee at this and there is a bounce to his step, making the flashlight beam bob along slick walls. The dragon is reportedly bigger than a truck, with scales and wings and fangs. If what he’s gathered is correct, the thing has eaten and regurgitated at least twenty people.

His whistles echo down the tunnel. "Here dragon, dragon, dragon," he calls. "Show me your treasure."

Quickly soon after, he’s knocked off his feet and lands hard on the concrete walkway. Then something that feels thick and solid slaps him across the face. Dean thinks blearily that retribution is swift, before he's clocked over the head again and the world swims out of focus. The lights dim, and then he's falling into darkness.

 

 

 

When he comes to, there's a strong stench of barbecue. The dripping of water is audible, still dark and rank. He’s still in the sewer then, and hasn’t been moved far. Except now he’s lying on a small mound of metal objects.

Upon further inspection Dean sees it’s mostly utensils, metal cups, and pennies. He lets out a quiet laugh. If the dragon theory proves correct, this is a treasure pile. He moves to stand and coins cascade to the ground loudly.

He winces, hoping that didn't alert anything that he's awake. Hunting alone is truly stupid.

As he looks around, trying to make out anything in the shadows, he checks himself over for injuries. His shoulder hurts from his fall earlier, and there’s a wetness on the side of his neck, which he wipes at. There’s too much of it, and it just smears warmly, most likely blood.

"So, how’s things?" says a voice from the darkness, and Dean starts, sliding down the pile further until his feet touch ground. He avoids the skeleton near his feet that looks fresh.

"And how’s your lover boy?" the voice continues. A familiar voice. "Are you two still at loggerheads?"

Dean squints to see, and a form resolves as if from smoke. A shaft of moonlight seems to fall over the man in the corner although there’s no gap in the ceiling.

It’s an illusion, clearly. Because Crowley is dead. Or, more importantly, gone.

But Crowley is there nonetheless. He looks real, solid. He’s in his signature black suit, a cheshire smile curling ironically at his mouth.

Dean looks around for the dragon but can’t see or hear anything other than Crowley and the sound of metal as Dean steps backward. He’s impressed, if wary. Creatures that can activate human memories, that can play people against themselves, are powerful, not to mention a real bitch.

While he’s distracted, the whip strikes out of the darkness again and the pain across his back is searing. He scrambles away, feeling for his flashlight or phone.

Crowley tsks while Dean stumbles on other piles of metal. Cups and silverware slide every which way making it hard to keep his balance.

Crowley examines his nails. "Boned things up again with Sam, I see?" he asks. "Pun very much intended. And despite such favourable odds, too."

For a moment Dean’s mind is overtaken by the memory of Sam hovering over him, the scratch of his stubble against Dean’s mouth, then Dean takes out his gun and shoots into the darkness.

He looks around wildly. "You’re not real," he says to Crowley, half wishing he was. Nothing quite like the enemy you know. "And Sam doesn’t feel that way, so."

"But you wish he did."

"No, I—" But he’s not going to argue with what is clearly a ploy to distract him. He looks past Crowley, trying to find what’s really lurking in the shadows. "What’s it to you? What’s your goal here?"

For a moment he can just make out yellowed eyes burning into him before the image of Crowley is back. Dean shoots three times toward the eyes, only to have the gun knocked from his hands by the tail, which he sees now is nearly ten feet long.

When he’d shown Sam the tabloid headlines screaming things like "Dragons Take Over Sewer System" and "Baby Alligator Flushed Down Toilet Becomes Giant Alligator!" he has to admit he’d been expecting something a little smaller, a little more sparkly. This is a real beast, that’s clearly carved out a nest for itself and has lured hapless sewage workers into its lair over time.

Dean finds a fire poker in a nearby treasure pile and charges, swinging once, twice, a third time. "Get out of my head," he huffs out as he swings, before diving away from the tail, a narrow miss.

A low laughter starts up and Dean flinches before realizing it’s no longer Michael in his head, that he’s relatively safe now and the laughter is just coming from the twenty-foot dragon, using Crowley like a mouthpiece. Crowley, who begins to morph to look a bit like Dean’s dad actually.

"I asked you to do one thing," says his dad. "And you went and fucked that up. It’s no surprise Sam wants to leave you."

Again Dean sees images of his brother between the sheets, followed by memories of Sam walking away from him.

"You know what, that’s really low," Dean says, before lunging again at the darkness. The handle slips and the swing goes wide, Dean’s palms too slicked over with sweat.

A scorching shot of flame jets toward him, just singing Dean’s boot. He can smell burning hair.

"Dragons really do breathe fire, huh? Noted."

"Just when I think even you can’t be this stupid, you go and surprise me."

Dean squawks but the voice, he realizes belatedly, is Sam’s.

He thanks his lucky stars for a moment before realizing of course it’s just the dragon again, making him see what he wants most to distract him. Just what Dean needs, really. He thrusts the skewer at Sam’s image, but this time it doesn’t flicker, instead just frowns and side steps so that Dean lands face-first in some trash.

"Dude," says Sam, and Dean is overcome with embarrassed relief.

"Dean," says their dad. "Leave your brother alone. It’s bad enough the things you want to do to him. Don’t bring him into this."

Dean rages, surging up and trying to tackle the image. "You shut the hell up!"

"Dean!"

Dean lands on his elbows, arms swinging through nothing. "Fuck!" he shouts.

He is distantly aware of Sam cursing then grabbing the skewer and advancing in the dragon. Dean stumbles to his feet in time to see the dispassionate look in Sam’s eyes when he says, "Your can go to hell.”

He darts in quick and the skewer swings true.

There’s a firey screech and then silence. Sam looks away and jerks the blade out. The dragon’s toothy, scaley head plummets to the ground.

Dean doesn’t hear his dad’s response as the illusion fizzles out and all that lays in his place is a dead monster that once shone like emeralds.

Sam rushes to Dean’s side and Dean tries to convey that he's all right and _what the fuck, Sam_ , and _thank god that's over_ , but Sam looks suddenly terrifying. Dean crawls off of the pile of metal, fancy forks sticking into his knees. The tumble to land at Sam’s feet is ungainly.

"That went well," Sam observes, not offering an arm up.

The sear on his neck burning, Dean mutters, "Oh shut up."

Sam nods to where Dean had just made a fool of himself. "What did you see?"

"Crowley."

"Wow."

"He says hi. Now let’s get the hell out of here."

They douse the body in lighter fluid, mainly Dean, with gusto. Sam holds out a lighter and lets him do the honors.

The journey out of the sewers is thankfully short, and they get weird looks from a few passersby as they drag themselves out of the manhole.

Sam’s fingers drum on his knee as they drive to the nearest motel. Dean thinks he should feel better than he does, considering they just saved the lives of countless civilians. He wants Sam to talk to him and tell him he’s an idiot. He wants to know they can fix all the things Dean broke when he let Michael in but he doesn’t know how to ask.

"Shower," he says on the way into their room, and hears Sam lock the door behind them. Shucking gross clothing by a bed, he says, "I could've gotten out of there myself, you know."

Sam doesn’t look like he believes him. "Right."

"Would've been bad, but I could've," Dean insists.

"Sure."

The shower is hot and Dean stands under the spray for a long time thinking of nothing, letting his muscles relax and loosening the crick in his neck. It doesn’t look like he needs any sort of stitches. He’s just hungry, tired, bruised. The only thing that’s wounded is his pride. Things he can fix.

When he comes out, toweling his hair, there’s a six-pack on the shared nightstand and a grilled cheese and fries. Sam is looking studiously at the list of channels while Dean stands where he’s stood a thousand times before and thinks, _I love him._

Dean goes and sits gingerly at the edge of his bed, picking up the grilled cheese. "Uh, thanks."

"No problem." Sam still doesn’t look at him.

To Dean’s recently-cleaned perspective, Sam looks pretty gross. His shirt is singed and he’s distinctly wet in clothes that might need to be incinerated. But under the soot and the who-knows-what, he looks like Dean’s brother, finally. Kind of annoyed, very attractive, and most importantly, in one piece. Dean will take this over anything else.

Sam frowns at his feet for a while as Dean eats the sandwich is three bites. "Look, I know this has been weird for you," he says. "That we had sex."

Dean coughs, managing to swallow his mouthful. "Wow, just put it right out there."

Sam snorts, apparently past the point of real disappointment. "Great, good talk." He shoves away from the table with a scrape of chair legs. "I’m going to shower."

"Sam."

"Go to sleep, Dean."

He pulls off his shirt while Dean nods and twists the cap off a bottle. "I left you the big towel," Dean tells him.

Sam gives him a look as he shuts the bathroom door. Dean’s mouth is suddenly parched and he gulps half his beer. He's going to spend the rest of his life not being able to own up to what they've done. It’s probably going to kill him.

And he’s still sitting there when Sam reemerges.

When Sam doesn’t say anything, just goes to find a clean shirt, Dean says, "Sorry I went out alone."

"It’s fine, Dean."

There is an edge to Sam’s voice. Dean knows he should do something, make a gesture. If he reached out now he knows Sam would let him and that somehow scares him the most.

But Dean stays frozen in place. He might have his moments, but he's not _this_ brave.

Sam dresses and when it seems the silence will last forever says, "I’m going to get some air."

This is the beginning of the end. Dean can see it clearly, how his own stupidity will ruin them. No one to blame but himself.

When Sam starts to pull on clean jeans, Dean somehow forces himself to speak. "I hate that he put his hands on you. My hands."

He curls his fingers under his pillow. The things they’ve done seem impossible.

Sam stops putting on his pants. "I know."

"And I don’t know how to fix it, but I also…" Dean drinks more beer to steel himself. "I know that if I don’t do something, you’ll probably leave. And I don’t want that."

"Dude, I’m just going for a walk. I'm not like, _leaving_."

"Why not? No one would blame you."

Sam rounds to stare at him. The incredulous look on his face is kind of refreshing. “Why not? Because I care about you, you asshole!"

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Dean lets out a breath. "Well that’s good at least."

Sam advances on him and Dean puts his beer on the side table with the rest, and it’s a good thing too because Sam shoves him back onto the mattress. Dean can’t tell if it’s a fight Sam wants. He thinks maybe it’s not, and his hands instantly like memory go to Sam’s waist, meant to push Sam away but instead sliding up and under Sam’s shirt.

Dean brushed his teeth, thank goodness for small miracles. He pulls Sam down against him for what was meant to be the kiss of a lifetime, but which results in Sam enthusiastically going with it and over-lunging so their foreheads knock together, hard.

Sam rubs at his face, eyes watering. "Jesus."

"So," says Dean, once they’ve regained some composure. He shuts up though when Sam looks at him again.

"Get on the bed, Dean."

Dean crawls fully onto the bed in an undignified fashion, and thankfully Sam follows. He knows Sam kind of hates him right now, but god help him, the way Sam goes right for his mouth, hands everywhere — it feels like the opposite.

Dean tries to slow it down but he can’t help the groan that escapes his lips when Sam moves so that he’s covering Dean, their legs tangling together. Dean drops his hands to the bed sheets, because actively pulling Sam down against him seems too much. It’s probably too late for that, but he’s already guilty enough as it is.

He’d always thought, when he’d allowed himself to imagine it, that Sam would be quiet in bed. But Sam seems to take extra pleasure in shoving Dean around. On second thought, it makes sense that he’d be a control-freak here, too.

In the real world, where Dean can't feel Sam hard against him, Dean would call him on it. "I need you," Dean tells him instead.

Sam's face screws up like he's been punched. "Prove it, you asshole." He hooks an ankle under Dean's leg and uses it to flip him onto his front. Dean knows that move but it still catches him off guard. He pushes up on his elbows but Sam presses a hand between his shoulder blades.

"If I'd of known you'd be such a bitch in bed I wouldn't have wasted half my life waiting for it," he mutters into the pillow. He understands what he’s saying just as it's leaves his mouth, and the longer the time passes, the more the implications keep loading right on.

"You," Sam tries, in a sort of loaded tone. "You what?"

"Forget it." He turns over and Sam lets him, so that now Dean can slide his foot up Sam’s leg, and rut against Sam's hip while Sam moves with him until they’re both panting. When Sam yanks Dean’s boxer briefs down to his thighs and tugs down his own PJ pants, Dean takes them both in hand, reveling in the taste Sam’s moan against his tongue.

Then Sam’s hand smooths down Dean’s side, and wanders over his ass. Dean's breath hitches and he shoves Sam away. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Sam freezes, hovering but no longer touching, like he's been caught red-handed. Dean can see that he has an open condom in one hand, which he looks close to hiding behind his back.

"Sam?" Dean prompts.

"I thought you—" Sam pulls away completely.

"I mean yeah, but—"

Had he used condoms while sticking it to Michael? But no, down that road lies madness.

When Dean had imagined this, he’d never thought of the actual mechanics. That said, he’d somehow assumed they’d be doing this the other way around.

Sam waits, sitting back on his knees. After a moment of silence, Dean glances at Sam’s dick for the first time. He can only imagine what it will feel like to have that thing inside him. And when he looks back up, Sam has that look on his face, that smug little smile that’s always made Dean want to do unspeakable things to him.

"So do you—" Sam asks. "I mean if you think it’s too much for you, I can be the one who—"

Dean’s eyes flick downward again, and Sam strokes his dick once absently, eyes on Dean. There's no angst there, just consideration.

"I'm not doing this dry," Dean finally says. "Ok?"

"Hell yes," Sam says.

He lunges. For his bag, maybe, but on reflex Dean jerks away, meaning his elbow slams into the nightstand right in the funny bone. Bottles clatter to the floor and of them breaks but the others just roll off into the dark corners. Dean grabs his elbow. "Goddammit."

"Sorry," Sam says, like he means it. They look at each other again and it’s kind of horrible.

Sam opens his mouth to say something more but Dean shakes his head and gets out of bed and goes into Sam’s bag.

"The inside pocket," says Sam, although Dean’s already found it. He deposits the bottle of lube on the nightstand giving Sam a meaningful look, and Sam shuts his mouth.

Sam hasn't moved, sitting back on his heels. He looks thoughtfully at the lube like it's some new concept to him and Dean awkwardly sits at the edge of the bed until he makes a decision and grabs the condom from Sam’s hand and rolls it on for him, looking between them as Sam jerks in his palm.

When Sam picks up the lube Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him down, kissing his nose, kissing his face, and letting Sam manhandle him into whatever configuration of limbs he wants him.

It was supposed to be thank-god-you’re-alive sex, possibly even I’ve-wanted-this-for-close-to-forever sex, but it quickly veers into the realm of best-sex-of-my-life sex. It’s seriously uncomfortable, that weird fucked up way their bodies apparently fit perfectly like pieces of the same broken puzzle. Dean doesn’t even know how to approach thinking about this situation so he tries not to.

"Well goddamn," he says when they’re done and Sam has gotten up to flush the condom. Sam looks like a Grecian god as he leans against the bathroom doorway looking Dean over like there might be more in store.

"You’re welcome," he says and Dean tells him to fuck off but Sam climbs back into bed despite this. He rests his head back on his hands.

Dean rises up on an elbow, running a hand through his hair and looking down at Sam for a long time. Sam who smirks up at him, whose sweat Dean can feel cooling on his skin. And eventually Sam falls asleep next to him, despite their being a second bed and a million reasons why he shouldn’t and Dean feels happy for the first time in forever.

How did they get here, he wonders, accidentally timing his breathing to Sam's. And how have things turned out okay?

But indulgent self-analysis and reflection never does a body good. Sometimes you tell your brother you love him, Dean thinks, watching Sam sleeping in the bed next to him like in the passenger seat one-hundred miles from anywhere. Sometimes, the fast lane hits a fork.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to oddishly, lyryk, tsalmavet, and stardust_made, who were such amazing betas and cheerleaders!


End file.
